


terrible with the brightness of gold

by brawlingdiscontent



Series: encomium carolis regis [1]
Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Vikings, Dub con elements, Dubious Consent, M/M, Mild Gore, Minor Character Death, Other tags are spoilers--message me if you're worried, Political Intrigue, Shaw/Charles is in the past, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Threats of Self Harm, Violence, a/b/o dynamics are subtle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-01
Updated: 2019-04-06
Packaged: 2019-10-20 12:53:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17622737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brawlingdiscontent/pseuds/brawlingdiscontent
Summary: The war is lost.With the futures of his people and his children at stake, former Crown consort Charles of Normandy awaits the arrival of England's new master, the fearsome Viking warrior, Erik Lehnsherr. (Inspired by 11th century historical events)“For who could look upon the lions of the foe, terrible with the brightness of gold, who upon the men of metal, menacing with golden face, … who upon the bulls on the ships threatening death, their horns shining with gold, without feeling any fear for the king of such a force?”                                                                        -Encomium Emmae Reginae





	1. i

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is already complete (though I'm thinking of continuing the story in additional parts), and will be uploaded as I edit it.
> 
> I'm being a weirdo and calling London 'Londres,' its French name, because technically Charles is French here and I don't want people bringing in their typical associations with the city--it's a very different place in the 11th century.  
> .

“For who could look upon the lions of the foe, terrible with the brightness of gold, who upon the men of metal, menacing with golden face, … who upon the bulls on the ships threatening death, their horns shining with gold, without feeling any fear for the king of such a force?”

\-           _Encomium Emmae Reginae_

 

Charles slowly sips his wine, the great hall empty and dark around him.

 

Outside the hall he can hear the ambiguous noise of commotion as servants, townspeople, and what remain of the knights gather personal possessions and round up the last of the tribute. Their calls fade to into background as he stares alternately into his cup and the small fire in the hearth, barely illuminating the closest corners of the space.

 

Sebastian had succumbed to the black fever that winter. It had been a month-long affair and unpleasant, with the dying King barking orders at his physicians and, towards the end, clawing at Charles as his consort came to watch over him, clinging to life.

 

Charles had watched mostly impassively, his brain whirring with possibilities and plans for the uncertain time to come, and quietly considered the irony: at the height of wartime for a great warlord and military commander to die of a mere illness.

 

He had allowed himself one moment of emotion as Sebastian’s final breath left his body—all those remnants of feelings that arose from fourteen years of marriage, Charles’ entire adult life, carried away on a death rattle--before he turned his thoughts firmly towards the future.

 

After Sebastian was buried, there was no time for grieving. Word of his death reached the Danes, and a siege descended on the city. Charles held the city alone for almost two seasons, the chaos and onslaught preventing the election of a new king, while another portion of the Danish army battled Sebastian’s remaining generals around the land.

 

One by one, the other cities had toppled beneath the assault.

 

Then, a fortnight ago, word had come of the defeat of Janos. His husband’s guardian of Northumbria was dead, and the Northern cities had fallen. Londres alone remained free from Viking rule, and it, too, would undoubtedly fall.

 

Despite the best efforts of himself and the remnants of the _witan_ , word spread quickly. Over the next week the last of their allies abandoned the city in droves, fleeing the fearsome Danish horde and its ruthless commander, the Vikings who neared the city every day as Erik Lehnsherr, lion of the North, rejoined the split remainder of his army. 

 

It is during this mad rush to leave that Charles sends his children away.

 

His thoughts anchored by the chalice-like structure of logs burning in the hearth, he casts his mind back to that day.

 

_\---His youngest cries as he hands her up into the saddle to Raven, while her brother maintains a stoic face._

 

_“Charles--,” Raven starts. He stops her with a hand on top of hers, clasping them where they grip the reins._

 

_“I’ll be fine. Take care of them.”_

 

_There’s a rustling and a shout, and he steps closer to avoid being flattened as a pair of riders race by, like rats leaving a sinking ship._

 

_Her hands are warm in his, and he squeezes once, firmly before he lets them go, watching to the last moment as they vanish from sight.---_

 

Safe in Raven’s care and hidden by the crush of the mob, they slipped through the South Gate to seek shelter in Normandy. His home, where they have never been—where, if not ensured a warm welcome, they might at least be offered protection.

 

The city simply isn’t safe any longer.

 

A sudden flare from the hearth claims another log, and the structure tumbles in, integrity disturbed.

 

When the call to surrender came, brought by messenger and sealed with red wax, Charles had wasted little time deliberating. If accepted, there was no guarantee the invaders would be merciful, keep to their offer—stories traveled through the surrounding villages of hordes of alphas pillaging and raping; of hostages found without ears or hands—but between a chance at survival and unprecedented slaughter, there was no choice at all.  

 

Which leaves him with tomorrow. The arrival of the new King.

 

The sounds of commotion outside have gradually fallen away, and in the silence of the great hall Charles thinks he can hear digging.

 

Some of his best soldiers are hard at work, bundling personal correspondence and important political documents into sackcloth, preparing them for burial in chests. The city’s treasures, on the other hand, golden torques and silver coins, are being heaped in the centre of town for the danegeld. More than a King’s ransom. He hopes it will be enough to appease the invaders. The alternative does not bear thinking about.

 

The sound of a throat clearing pulls him from his reverie.

 

“M’lord?”

 

Charles draws his gaze away from the fire to see that Logan has returned.  His most trusted advisor and commander had, until recently, been Sebastian’s stable master. He looks worn out, and dirt covers his clothes, a smudge of it on his face.

 

He meets the other’s eyes, seeking confirmation.

 

“It’s done.”

 

The afterimages of the flames make patterns on the inside of his eyelids as he closes them briefly and nods once, sharply, in acknowledgement.

 

He can feel Logan hovering behind him as he sits in silence for a moment, not exactly anxious, but watchful--concerned. The severity of the situation has instilled some formality in the gruff man, but he’s no doubt moments away from telling Charles to get some sleep.

 

Charles blinks. The flames linger still, as though their light has been seared permanently into his retinas, transforming everything he looks at into an inferno.

 

As though everything is burning.

 

Charles drains his wooden chalice, but the wine can’t quite wash away the acid taste at the back of his throat.

 

He gets up, dousing the fire with the last of the wine in the jug, and lets Logan urge him to bed, closing the doors of his great hall behind him for the final time.

 

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Here are a couple of atmospheric playlists that I listened to a lot when writing this, if anyone's interested:  
>   
> https://8tracks.com/dukerollo/tales-from-the-wanderer  
> https://8tracks.com/dukerollo/twilight-of-the-gods  
> 


	2. ii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got this one up quick because the first one was so short. I expect there'll usually be more time between updates. Thanks for reading!

The morning mists curl around Charles’ cloak as he walks out of the city gates the next morning, and his own people bolt them firmly behind him. They are a people inherited, not born into, but he’s considered them his nonetheless since he arrived, barely more than a child, in marriage to their King. His loyalty to them has only grown since the siege, their bond reforged in the crucible of their hardships.

 

As he gazes out across the normally clear plain ahead of him, all he can see is fog.

 

It gives him the impression that the world ends here—which in a way it does.

 

He feels swallowed up.

 

The small group of warriors Logan has assembled are subdued, unused to this inaction. They carry with them the weariness of the end of a long campaign and a restlessness borne of being able only to follow through with what has already been set. 

 

At Charles’ signal, he and his small retinue start across the plain, the only sound the muted clip of their boots against the ground. Between the early hour and the blanketing mist, the only creature they encounter is a lone hawk, swooping low in chase of some unlucky animal.

 

He looks back once, briefly to see the fog creeping up the sides of the city gates, climbing towards their tops.

 

The sun has crept only an inch in the sky when several others emerge out of the mist before them: a group of armed men.

 

They are an eclectic band, almost triple the size of Charles’ party, and all clearly trained warriors, hands resting decisively on axes handles and sword hilts. They give off an intimidating air, rough-looking and a bit wild. One man has a chain wrapped around his knuckles, and another’s brow is marred by a large, black tattoo. Vikings.

 

It seems that Erik the Red, conqueror of the North, has sent his soldiers to secure his hostage in advance.

 

His escorts tense up, readying for a fight and Logan turns to him for a signal.

 

“Your Highness,” a voice calls out from the back of the group, cutting though the rising tension in a tone that is not fully respectful. A ruddy-complexioned man in strange Viking dress emerges and greets Charles with a low, sardonic bow. 

 

He’s somewhat surprised to be so quickly recognized with only the simple circlet banding his brow to distinguish himself, his plain tunic matching the others--but reasons his position in the group and lack of visible weapons must give him away. 

 

“I am General Azazel, aide to the king,” the man announces. His words are surprisingly clear. Knowledge of the Saxon language is common amongst the Danes, many of whom have picked it up over years of raids and plundering; but the thick consonants of Saxon fit differently in his mouth, a foreigner of another sort.

 

He steps closer and holds something out, which Charles, with a staying gesture to Logan, moves forward to examine. 

 

It's a leaf of parchment bearing a seal. Carved into the wax is an intricate pattern of runes bordering the image of a lion, powerful paws raised in mid-flight as though about to leap upon some unfortunate prey. Lehnsherr’s seal, proof of his commission. 

 

Charles wonders if the image is emblematic not just of the Lehnsherr line, but of the man himself. The varying reports he's heard describe the Danish commander as more beast than man, a vicious warlord with an animal frenzy in his eyes that betrays a mind wracked with madness and tainted by cruelty. Hyperbolic fear mongering perhaps; but on the parchment the lion leaps out at him, its face twisted in an anthropomorphic grimace.

 

He realizes he’s been staring over long and pulls himself away, back to the unusual messenger.  “Very well. What do you require of me?”

 

“Surrender your weapons, if you would, and allow me to escort you to the camp.” 

 

The over-solicitousness is uncomfortable as it is unexpected--is he playing at civility or mocking the courtly manners of Charles’ people, the Normans? Regardless, it is vastly preferable to the rough treatment that Charles had steeled himself to anticipate from the Danes. He gestures to his men to comply. He can tell from Logan’s strained expression that his general is unhappy with the situation, but should the Vikings decide to kill them, weapons will be of little use.

 

The Vikings move to disarm them, collecting the surrendered weapons and, one by one, searching Charles’ men. Then one of them, burly with a bald head, walks over to Charles and reaches out, uninvited, to continue with him. Charles stiffens at the affront, and Logan steps forward to block him.

 

“‘ _ How dare you _ ,” he growls. 

 

The two men face off, posturing, their chests puffed out, moments from snapping. Logan may have already lost his weapons, but he’s baring his teeth like he’s ready to rip out a throat.

 

Charles can see in his mind’s eye what will unfold. Logan will lunge, ripping into the man. He may even manage to kill him before the Vikings retaliate, dispatching first Logan, and then the rest of their party. The surrender in breach, they will wreak havoc on the city, the townsfolk unprepared, slaughtered in their beds, the Vikings’ wrath unimpeded by treaty-- 

 

Azazel barks out a sharp command and the man stands down.

 

“Deepest apologies, your Highness. That will not be necessary, of course.”

 

After another moment, Logan steps back, too.

 

With some tension and wariness on both sides, the Danish warriors form up around Charles’ party and they start off again together.

 

The first signs of the Viking camp rise out of the fog in silent warning. 

 

Impaled on wooden poles staked in the ground, marking the camp's perimeter are gruesome reminders of the invaders’ might. Heads and limbs severed from once-living bodies hang above them in a rotting spectacle. 

 

Charles doesn't look too closely at them for fear of recognition, though he can’t stop himself from wondering if any of the appendages were once attached to his step-children. He dismisses the notion just as quickly, knowing that the battles where they fell were long past and far from here. Back when they still had hope of repelling the invading forces.

 

The vastness of the camp is somewhat of a surprise. During the long months of siege he had received many reports of the encampment from his scouts and had often envisioned what it might look like. Seeing it in person is an entirely different experience. As they move deeper his senses are overwhelmed by a mass of unwashed bodies and the smell of cooking oils and meat roasting on spits. There must be almost two thousand warriors crowded together, polishing weapons and preparing for the day. 

 

As they make their way through the thronging masses, Charles is both glad of the escort, and sees a reason for it other than security: their party, as it passes, catches speculative looks and some leering glances from several men, alphas who have been at battle for months, far from the company of their women and omegas. He subtly straightens his spine and squares his shoulders, looking straight ahead.

 

Charles is still taking everything in, avoiding eye contact and cataloging potential escape routes--few and unlikely, surrounded as they are--when they stop short at an unadorned tent.

 

It's a canvas construction, not particularly large nor distinctive. The only thing unusual about it is the two men posted at its entrance, standing to attention.  

 

Azazel says something in Danish, a direction of some kind, and one of his men steps forward to hold up the flap for Charles to enter.

 

“I hope it is to your liking.” The man gestures forth, obsequious as ever. “The King will arrive this afternoon.”

 

Charles enters the tent. Behind him he knows his escort is taking up formation outside to stand guard. He thinks it likely that Azazel is also leaving some men behind, to guard him in a different manner. 

 

The tent’s inside is as nondescript as its exterior: not much taller than a man at its centre, a pile of furs in one corner and a couple of simple chairs and a small table. 

 

He walks over to one of the chairs, gathering his cloak around him, and sits, ready to await whatever is to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just in case anyone’s super disturbed, Charles’ step-children were all roughly around his age (which, if anyone’s been keeping track is early 30s)--so fully grown adults, no child murder here. Erik will make his appearance in the next part.


	3. iii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last of the very short updates, so the next chapters may take a little longer to edit and post. Also I can't figure out how to make an em-dash on ao3, so sorry about the weird-looking dashes!

The mists have dissipated by the afternoon and the landscape seems achingly bleak as Charles is brought to the shore to watch the long ships glide inexorably closer.

 

They have separated him from his meagre guard--when Azazel returned for him, only Charles’ firm command stayed Logan from fighting his removal—but he is glad of it, as it has given him more room to think. 

 

It was hard to organize his thoughts in the unfamiliar tent with the continuous sounds and activity of the Viking camp and his men standing guard just outside. It's calmer here; he knows the territory if not those he's with, and the brisk air sharpens his senses.

 

The ships move smoothly through the water, surging forward to the rhythmic beating of a drum. They make a fearsome sight, their gilded bows glinting in the sun. Charles counts over fifty. Only a quarter of the fleet if he believes the rumours. He discretely pulls his furs closer to his body to hide the shiver that wells up in him. Everything depends on his continued stoicism for the next cycle of the sun.

 

Erik the Conqueror, ruler of Denmark and the Northmen, has, according to the more reasoned reports, gained a reputation as fair but ruthless with his enemies. The question was where Charles and his children now stood. 

 

As an omega of noble birth Charles himself is not likely to come to harm—or at least to be killed. Most likely Lehnsherr will marry him off to some follower as a reward and to keep him out of trouble, or perhaps even try to ransom him back to his family in Normandy (ludicrous though the idea is). It is his children that he must truly worry about: as alphas and Shaw’s only surviving--and thus presumptive--heirs, Lehnsherr’s smartest move would be to ensure their deaths. It’s barbarous, though hardly unheard of--after all, Sebastian had killed his own brothers to secure his throne.

 

Under these circumstances, the distance of Normandy will afford his children little protection. His husband's assassins had reached farther than Normandy.

 

The first of the boats reaches the shoreline and a brace of men rush forward to drag it up onto the sand. As they do, several figures alight from the prow, wading the last few paces to shore. Charles’ view is partially obscured as they mount on horseback and then turn en masse toward where his party is waiting some ways up the beach.

 

The wind, stronger here than inland, whistles through Charles’ hair as he squints into the sun to watch their approach. 

 

As the figure at the head of the riders draws close, the lines of men on either side of Charles kneel and bow their heads respectfully. He takes a deep, invisible breath. For one fleeting moment the image on the seal flashes before his eyes: the lion closing in on his prey.

 

The procession comes to a stop before him, and Charles tips his head back slightly to see the leader reach up to pull off his helmet.

 

The first thing that strikes Charles is that there is no madness in the eyes that meet his, only reason. Not a devil, then, nor a beast after all. Only a man. His craggy face has been weathered by war but is not harsh or cruel-looking, and there is even a rugged sort of handsomeness to his features. 

 

“Charles of Normandy,” Erik Lehnsherr states rather than inquires, his accent thickening the words. “Reports of your beauty, I see, have not been exaggerated.” 

 

While some might consider the lack of reference to his married title an insult, however condescending Lehnsherr’s willingness to separate Charles from his late husband—Lehnsherr’s enemy–can only be a good thing. Despite the flattering words, his tone (unlike Azazel’s) is dry.

 

Charles keeps his expression artfully neutral, followed by the slightest tilt of the head in acknowledgement. “Your servant, Your Grace.” 

 

“And my prisoner, is it not?” 

 

The sudden bluntness is momentarily shocking—a more gracious captor would not have drawn attention to this fact—and Charles sees at once he’s misjudged the man: the conciliatory compliment a feint masking his true inquiry, like a probing blade, seeking out Charles’ weaknesses. 

 

“As you like,” Charles deflects, refusing to react. He’s aware of the many men around them, witnessing this exchange. If Lehnsherr’s trying to humiliate him with his current situation, he won’t succeed. Despite this sudden change in circumstances, Charles has been a prisoner in one manner or another almost his entire life. 

 

The other stares at him inscrutably for a moment but he doesn’t probe further, seemingly satisfied by whatever he had discovered from this first bout.

 

“I trust my men were respectful on your trip here.”

 

”I have no complaints regarding their conduct.” Not that Lehnsherr would care if he had. 

 

“And the city?”

 

“My people have been instructed to open the gates to you and your army.” He hesitates briefly before forging ahead. “They have also been assured of your clemency and mercy in the face of their cooperation. I trust you will conduct yourself in an honourable manner and keep that assurance.” 

 

His tone is sharp, verging on challenging. It’s a risk, but he needs to know what he can expect from the other man. 

 

Lehnsherr looks at him speculatively. “Though many of my men would disagree, I have a certain admiration for your people for holding out so long against us--certainly far longer than any of my generals expected. And all seemingly without replenishing your stores.”

 

Charles lets this comment and its unspoken inquiry sit in silence, as with relief he realizes that the Vikings haven’t yet figured out how they smuggled in the food that had preserved them during the siege. The Danish King’s gaze is piercing, but Charles can't discern from it anything of his thoughts. He waits for a response.

 

“We Danes are men of our word,” Lehnsherr says finally. “Provided they comply with the terms of surrender, your people’s lives will be spared.”

 

As he takes this in, it suddenly occurs to Charles how strange it is to be face-to-face with his formerly distant opponent---the man whose armies he had for months held at bay, only to open the city gates to them now of his own volition, on just the promise of mercy.

 

“Come,” Lehnsherr says, apparently finished with the conversation.  He extends a hand, which Charles takes reluctantly. He feels the grip of a rough palm in his and then, with no time to react, he is pulled up into the saddle in front of the man and they set off towards the city. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the next update: the official surrender of the city. Thanks for reading!


	4. iv

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter: things start to happen! Thank you all so much for your comments, I so appreciate them!!

The ride to Londres is passed in silence.

 

They are pressed together somewhat uncomfortably, his back to Lehnsherr's chest; though their several layers of clothing provide some separation, and the other doesn't touch him more than necessary beyond where he reaches through to grasp the reins. The ground is fairly smooth, but they are still jostled by occasional bumps and pits in its surface.

 

It takes Charles little time to work out the symbolism of their respective positions.

 

Having Charles ride with him serves Lehnsherr in several ways. First and most practically, kept so close, Charles is a ready hostage against Saxon treachery. Then there's the largely figurative angle: seeing their old ruler under new jurisdiction will leave no doubts to the people of the city who their new master is. Finally, to those Saxons (numbering not a few) who felt that Charles, by his gender, should never have led them, Lehnsherr has taken the position of an alpha returning to assert control. Through this perspective the assault of the Danish invasion is softened by the restoration of the natural order. It’s a fairly clever move, tactically, and he’d applaud it if it didn’t make him feel so bitter.

 

The horse’s hooves trample over fallen leaves on the ground, signs of the encroaching fall soon to be upon them.

 

He’s surprised to find how resentful he is to cede control of the reins to Lehnsherr. He’s had his independence for so short a time, and yet he’s become accustomed to it. Perhaps Sebastian’s lessons on this subject had had less permanent an impact than intended.

 

They pass a handful of cottages, long abandoned by their inhabitants, and in no time are within sight of the city: the length of the journey is much shorter on horseback than by foot.

 

Outside the imposing city gates a huge honour guard awaits them—no doubt dispatched from the Viking camp while Charles waited at the shoreline. Rather than the more unified appearance of the Saxon army, these men are eclectic; their diversity of dress and bearing lending them a strange wildness that is accentuated by marks of individuality throughout, such as the banners of various warriors. The Danes don’t feel the same feudal duty as the Saxons, but let profit and self-interest dictate their loyalties. Lehnsherr is their king by choice alone.

 

At their approach, true to Charles’ instructions, the gates creak open, the sentries up on the ramparts calling down to men on the ground to pull together and lift the heavy wood.

 

Lehnsherr pulls up just short of the open gates and dismounts, offering Charles a hand to help him down that he once again accepts.

 

Lehnsherr has been courteous so far but that may be soon to change, and he’d like to limit further provocation.

 

As he looks around, Charles sees that besides the Danish guard, some of his own men, his small retinue from earlier this morning, wait outside the large tent that has been pitched for the official surrender of the city. Logan is among them, looking stormily in their direction. Probably fearing for his virtue.

 

Meanwhile, Lehnsherr has released his men from their kneeling positions with a wave and calls forth his captains from their ranks.

 

“Secure the city and report back,” he directs them. The command is in Saxon, seemingly for Charles’ benefit.

 

As hordes of men led by the Viking scouts disappear through the open city gates, Charles prays that the townsfolk will play their parts. They’ve been told to remain unarmed and not to fight; to give the Vikings no excuse to retaliate.

 

While the Danes enter the city, another group emerges from it, slowly making their way towards where Charles and Lehnsherr are standing. They are lead by the _witan_ chief, an old man, both too feeble and too loyal to flee with the rest of the councillors. He kneels low before Lehnsherr.  

 

Charles is struck by how thin he is compared to the hale Danish warriors, his bony knees sticking out from his tunic, his back bent with age and care, withered from the strain of the last few months. He wonders if he looks the same.

 

“Your Grace,” the _witan_ chief says without looking up, “we humbly offer the Danegeld.”

 

Behind the chief file the people of Londres in a slow procession, bearing sacks and chests heaped with riches which they deposit beside the tent in the next step of this ceremonial dance. None look directly at the Danes, and at least one is visibly trembling from fright. One by one they lay down their offerings and back away.

 

When the last of the parcels have been set down, Lehnsherr draws his sword and flips back the top of the nearest one. Its treasures are contained by a single piece of cloth—they must have run out of other vessels.

 

The next moments are marked with bated breath, as Lehnsherr scans the contents. It doesn't take long. After a few moments, he nods dismissively and signals several more men forward.

 

“Does it meet with your approval, your Grace?” Charles inquires softly. It's odd to associate the elevated title with the brutal savagery of a Viking King. Though it had never much suited Sebastian, either.  

 

The other looks over at him. “Provided it’s the amount we have stipulated, it should suffice.”

 

The worth of the city itself, its thousands of inhabitants, measured in a weight of silver and gold. Not an object of value was spared, save the circlet Charles now wears.

 

Lehnsherr offers some instructions to his men in Danish, presumably ordering them to count the spoils.

 

“Now, then, let's move on to the signing.” Lehnsherr gestures to Charles to walk ahead of him to the tent. “Lead the way, Your Highness, if you would.” His words and actions are again courteous, but say nothing of the man’s motives or feelings and are delivered in a dry tone that eschews sincerity.

 

Waiting the tent is a familiar figure.

 

“My second, Azazel. The new Earl of Mercia,”  Lehnsherr introduces. Azazel offers another of his theatrical bows.

 

Charles inclines his head in return. “We’ve met.” He remembers the Earl of Mercia. A kind, pleasant man—a rarity among Sebastian’s generals. He spares a moment to hope that he died quickly in battle rather than through the Vikings’ creative torture methods.

 

He looks back to Lehnsherr. “With your permission, I will send for my own second. He’s waiting outside.” Logan had been the obvious choice. He speaks Danish through his mother and served as a key emissary during negotiations.

 

Lehnsherr nods his consent, and a few moments later the man enters, offering a stiff bow. Charles uses their brief moment of eye contact to attempt to reassure his commander that he is unharmed. Logan’s loyalty has been an anchor since Sebastian’s death, albeit one that through his protectiveness sometimes threatens to drag him down.  

 

With Logan and Azazel here to serve as witnesses, the last pieces for the official surrender of the city are in place. With some sense of ceremony, they all take their places at the table laid out for this purpose.

 

Azazel produces the document which Lehnsherr passes over to Charles. Written on it in both Saxon and Danish is the declaration of surrender.

 

_‘I, Charles, Consort of England and acting Guardian of Londres, hereby surrender the city, and all her estates and riches unto Erik Lehnsherr, King of the Danelands and the Northlands, and relinquish my claim to the crown.’_

 

With the weight of this moment lying heavy on his shoulders and a slight tremor to his fingers, Charles signs below. He uses the lit candle to drip sealing wax onto the vellum. The red wax splatters like blood. Finally, he seals it with his husband’s signet ring, and passes it over to Lehnsherr to do the same.

 

In the quiet of the tent, Charles can hear only the beating of his own heart.

 

Lehnsherr takes the quill and scratches out his signature. As he affixes his own seal, the sounds of chaos erupt outside. Voices ring out in shouts and sharp words in the harsh bark of Danish.

 

The scouts have returned.

 

Lehnsherr responds quickly, flipping up the tent flap and moving in the direction of the noise, Azazel on his heels. After a moment, Charles, with dread pooling in his gut, forces himself to follow.

 

He pauses only to tilt his head back towards Logan and murmur,  “Remember what we agreed. _Do nothing_ ,” before leaving the tent.

 

He emerges to see Lehnsherr, facing away from him, in deep conversation with the leader of the scouts. Their back-and-forth is short and sharp as the man gives his report. Charles can't make out what's being said, but he already knows the gist of it: the soldiers have secured the city but have found it surprisingly devoid of omegas and children.

 

At that moment Lehnsherr turns, as though somehow sensing his presence, and his eyes immediately snap to Charles. Whether he sees something incriminating in Charles’ expression, or has simply followed his thoughts through to their logical conclusions, he stalks back over towards him and grabs Charles roughly by the arm, his other hand hovering above his sword hilt.

 

“You assured me the city was ours,” he bites out, words harsh and low. “What’s the meaning of this?” Free of formality and ceremony, Charles senses that he is at last catching a glimpse of what lies beneath the man’s stoic demeanor. Up close his eyes are a vibrant blue, flecked through with grey.

 

He can feel Logan bristling behind him, but he looks steadily back at the scourge of England, disregarding the pain in his arm.

 

“I know what happens when Vikings take a city.” The spoils of war aren’t limited to silver and gold. “I’ve had the most vulnerable inhabitants removed for their safety—until such time as your army moves on.”

 

The tunnels or sally-ports had been dug long ago. They led from the blacksmith's and the armoury, extending under the city and the surrounding plain and emerging in the forest to the North. They had used them to smuggle in food during the siege. The besieging Vikings had never thought to search the forest when they could see clearly across the wide plain that none could approach from it undetected.

 

When Charles saw the end coming, he'd had another idea. Last night, while Charles’ correspondence and other sensitive documents were being buried under layers of earth, so was another of their secrets. After the city’s omegas and children had crossed through the tunnels to the safety of the forest, Logan had supervised a team in filling in the entrances with earth. Even if discovered, they would take some time to dig out, and his people would be long gone.

 

Something shifts in the other’s burning gaze, and Charles knows what he must suspect—a surprise attack, the betrayal of their compact. He has to explain before things get violent.

 

“I assure you, this is not a trick or a snare. I have no illusions regarding how my people would fare against your army, nor any desire for suicidal retaliation against you or your men. The city, as I’ve said, remains yours. I merely wished to ensure the safety of my people inasmuch as possible.”

 

It seems this explanation is enough to assuage the immediate danger. Lehnsherr releases his arm, but keeps a hand over his sword.

 

“You promised me—“         

 

“The terms of our agreement promised the city, all its riches, and my own personal surrender. There was no mention of any of the other inhabitants, certainly not civilians. You have your tribute; all of your conditions for our surrender have been fulfilled. We have kept our word: will you now break yours?”

 

This response is apparently not sufficient for Lehnsherr. “My men have been fighting long and hard. Would you have them go without reward?”

 

Anger flares up in Charles, hot and bright, at hearing his people so instrumentalized.

 

“My apologies _your Grace_ , you’ll have to find some other way to entertain your men.”

 

For a moment in the furious silence Charles is certain he is about to be struck. Lehnsherr’s grip is tight on his sword hilt as his free hand flexes, fingers extending as though calling on some mighty power from the earth to smite Charles into the ground.

 

The commander's face reveals his barely restrained anger, but his voice is devoid of it when he turns to his nearest men and with a dismissive gesture orders, “get the Consort set up in an apartment – ”

 

The soldier closest to Charles takes his upper arm—but he pulls it out of the man’s grasp and says calmly, with as much dignity as he can muster, “I’ll follow.”

 

He is thankful when the men desist, allowing him to follow freely; though his victory is soured by the fact that it is Lehnsherr’s nod—rather than any respect for his station—which causes his guards to back off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Charles is getting himself into trouble... I hope that twist didn't feel like it came out of nowhere; I tried to leave a few hints along the way. Thanks for reading!


	5. v

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just one more part to go in this first part of the series (though it's the longest part yet!) and then I have to get back to plotting the next ones.
> 
> A heads up that some of those tags start to come into play here.

The apartment Charles is brought to turns out to be his and Sebastian’s bedchamber in the keep. It’s a sensible move: it's one of the few private chambers and is heavily defensible—whether for keeping others out or securing those within. Lehnsherr’s men shut Charles in and stand guard outside.

 

He's somewhat disgruntled, but knows he could have come away from that altercation much worse.

 

Though that doesn't mean that it's over.

 

Alone in the room, he has nothing to do but to speculate what Lehnsherr will do with him now. He’d been angry to find the townspeople gone; will he and his men return to extract their whereabouts via torture? Or might he go the simpler route and just kill Charles for his insubordination? Maybe not—he still has some value, after all. Perhaps imprisonment awaits him, instead. Locked away somewhere far less pleasant than this room, cold and forgotten, until sickness or disease overcomes him: his family, of course, will never pay the ransom. As uncomfortable as this experience has been, there are endless indignities, of which the humiliation of chains is the least, that he has so far escaped.

 

He turns, seeking a distraction.

 

The night before he'd stripped the chamber of his few personal effects, to prevent them from being mishandled by the invaders. His attention catches on the room’s lone window, high and small. From it he can see the courtyard, overrun with the Danish army, already hard at work repossessing the Saxon keep. The sky is still light, but above them he can just make out the pale glimmer of the moon.

 

………

 

Much sooner than he expects, he hears muffled voices in the passageway.

 

The sun had set the hour before, leaving him in the dark. When the doors open, light spills in from the passageway to reveal Azazel standing on the other side.

 

He’s surprisingly relieved to see him. The devil you know, perhaps.

 

“Your Highness,” the man proclaims, “I have come to take you to dinner.”

 

That is...not what he’d expected.

 

As he steps out of the room, he studies the other man’s face for clues as to where this might be headed.

 

The flickering tapers in the passageway cast a mix of shadow and light across his face. Lehnsherr’s general offers only an ambiguous and mischievous grin.

 

……..

 

There is a strange horror in returning to the great hall, in being surrounded by foreign warriors where he had less than a day before been sole master.

 

Lehnsherr is seated on the raised platform at the front, surrounded by cronies, and every bit the conquering hero.

 

The torches burn brightly in their sconces, throwing dancing shadows on the walls. Wisps of smoke drift up to the high ceiling and kiss the beams of the roof. Fresh rush mats have been laid on the flagstones, and the place is packed with warriors. The hall hasn't seen an event like this for quite some time.

 

When they arrive the meal is already underway and dozens of pairs of eyes follow his progress up to the high table.

 

As Charles and Azazel approach, the King—for that is undoubtedly who he is in this space, assuming the ruler's place with assurance—looks up to greet them.

 

“Ah, Your Highness, good of you to come.”

 

Charles ignores what can’t be anything but a deliberate provocation. He's too wary, anyway, to take offense.

 

“I am at your Grace’s disposal.”

 

Lehnsherr gestures to the bench beside him, guiding him to sit, and Charles complies, examining his growing disquiet.

 

His purpose has already been discharged—the surrender of the city—and if not punished for his transgressions, he had expected now to be tucked away, out of sight and out of trouble, not sitting back at his banquet table in the place of honour.

 

Something is not right.

 

Amongst the raiders, squeezed in and looking uncomfortable, Charles notices several prominent Saxon lords. The coinmaster, the Lord Brycgstow, the Thegn of Lindon. All men had been trusted members of Sebastian’s council.

 

What is Lehnsherr planning?

 

Does he intend to punish Charles here for their earlier disagreement? Something public, in front of his men; the Saxon lords to bear witness. Perhaps a flogging. Or a more brutal humiliation, of a nature of which the mere speculation makes him sick.

 

He surreptitiously feels for his boot knife, for all the good it will do him should any of these men try to touch him.

 

Lehnsherr apparently notices his discomfort. “Eat. You must be hungry,” he prompts.

 

“Kind of you to offer me the fruits of my own cellars,” Charles snaps, tense in his unease. He immediately catches his mistake, and averts his eyes down and away. “Forgive me. I’m unused to being a guest in this hall.”

 

Lehnsherr does not reply, but after a moment nods his head curtly, accepting this response.

 

As Lehnsherr turns away to converse with the man on his other side—sour-looking, with a high forehead and a sharp, aquiline nose—Charles focuses his attention on the plate that someone has placed before him. He may as well eat to preserve his strength. He’d consumed nothing since the hard bread that had been offered to him in the Viking camp hours before.

 

He takes some comfort in the variety of attendants in the hall, many ostensibly out of place: stable hands and tradespeople who’ve stepped in to fill the gaps for the absent omegas. A reminder that not all is lost, whatever comes.

 

Then commotion breaks out in the hall.

 

The far doors crash open and two of Lehnsherr’s men enter, pulling a struggling figure between them.

 

Rows of heads turn to follow as the man is pulled dragged up the aisle. Lehnsherr rises and walks around the front of the high table to meet them. Charles rises too, in shock and alarm.

 

Pushed to the ground on his knees before the high table is Cain.

 

“Do you know this man, your Highness?”

 

“Yes. My late husband’s nephew.” The words tumble from his mouth almost involuntarily, as he feels the hall’s eyes settle on him, watching the situation with interest.

 

“His name?”

 

“Marko. Cain Marko.”

 

The commander turns back to his men. “His crime?”

 

“We caught him trying to leave the city with this” reports a strong-looking woman with beautiful dark skin. Her companion proffers a large burlap sack, which at a gesture from his commander is tossed to the ground in front of the table with a _clink_.

 

Lehnsherr steps down from the platform and nudges it with his boot, and the back spills open to reveal countless gold objects and coins.

 

Charles’ fingers grip the table’s edge, heart caught in his throat. Cain has stolen from the danegeld and broken the terms of surrender. Through this violation the invaders might see their surrender as incomplete—or pretend to—and retaliate.

 

“A thief. Well, we can’t have that.” Lehnsherr turns outwards, addressing the hall at large. His words call forth jeers from the Vikings filling the hall’s tables, and Charles is at once aware that every Viking warrior is armed.

 

Lehnsherr spreads his arms theatrically, and from his manner, Charles suddenly realizes that this has all been staged—not the fact that Cain was stealing, he has no doubt of that—but for such a man to be dragged out before them in the midst of the banquet. Lehnsherr had probably instructed his men to bring in the most important-looking criminal they could find from the streets. It’s just their luck that it’s the former King’s nephew. The only question remains: to what end? Is this example or incitement? A lesson for the Saxons or justification for mass murder?

 

“Master Marko, were you not aware that you were violating the terms of surrender?”

 

All bravado has been stripped from Cain's bulky frame, leaving a sniveling mass of flesh. “I didn’t—I wasn’t--I--”

 

Though Cain is his nephew by marriage, he’s several years Charles’ elder. When Charles first arrived—before he had hardened, learned to withstand and fight back—Cain had dedicated months to his torment.

 

“Was it not proclaimed in the streets, that none may touch the Danegeld?”

 

“There’s been some kind of misunderstanding, here," Cain protests with a whimper. "I swear to you, I am wholly and completely innocent—“

 

“You have broken the terms of surrender, and that demands requital. Wouldn't you agree, your Highness?” Lehnsherr turns back towards him, and it’s then that Cain’s puffy eyes seem to catch sight of Charles. They immediately refocus on him, bright and beady, appealing for help.

 

“Yes. Of course,” he responds. If Lehnsherr is looking for an excuse to start massacre Cain, the fool, has just handed it to him. Charles can’t say a word in Cain’s defense.

 

“We are in agreement, then.”

 

Cain is blubbering now— “My Lord, _please_ —“

 

“— _Your Grace_ ” the other corrects sharply. “Bring a stabilizing block.”

 

A tall, burly man hefts forward a large stump that seems to have been set aside for just this purpose, and Lehnsherr draws his sword. Charles’ knuckles turn white against the wood’s dark grain, now squeezing the edge of the table as if with enough pressure he could snap it free.

 

“Cain Marko, for your violation of the terms of surrender and your crime of theft against the Crown, I hereby sentence you to death.”

 

“Charles!” Cain cries out, “Charles, help me!”

 

Charles meets Cain’s eyes and vows not to look away from the strike of the blade.

 

It happens quickly—one second Cain is blubbering, screaming as he’s pushed against the floor, his head on the block, and the next there’s a sickening squelch as his pleas abruptly halt.

 

A cheer breaks out as blood beads on the tip Lehnsherr’s sword and Cain’s head sits apart from his body.

 

A wave of nausea passes through Charles and, for the first time, with this tangible evidence of Lehnsherr’s ruthlessness, he fully realizes the danger of his situation. Just what he was provoking with their argument this afternoon and how badly it could have gone. How badly it could still go.

 

As Lehnsherr gestures to some men to remove the body, anticipation settles thickly over the hall. This is the decisive moment: will he be satisfied, or has this bloody action only whetted Lehnsherr’s appetite for more? —Certainly a bloodbath might provide an acceptable substitute to any of Lehnsherr’s men who felt they’d been earlier cheated of their sport.

 

The room is rapt with suspense.  The sour-looking man on Lehnsherr’s far side grins at Charles, and with horror Charles sees that his teeth have been sharpened to points.

 

“Enough unpleasantness,” Lehnsherr at last declares. “Please, everyone, return to your meals!”

 

He hands away his sword to be cleaned and Charles finally releases his grip on the table. The message is clear and decisive. Lehnsherr now rules the city, and any who oppose him will swiftly meet a similar fate. For now at least, this appears to be the end of it.

 

Lehnsherr returns to his seat as men walk past the high table and out of the hall, carrying the head of Charles’ nephew. Presumably their destination is the row of spikes outside the Viking camp. Or perhaps a new set, here, outside the city.  As Charles slowly sits back on the bench, an image rises, unbidden—the heads of all the Saxon lords, Charles’ own head, spiked outside the city gates; flies buzzing where their eyes used to be.

 

The feast continues. As he struggles to finish his dinner, a shaken Charles can only be grateful that a massacre was not in Lehnsherr’s plan. He refrains from looking over to the place where the flagstones are stained with blood.  He’s not unused to the sight of violence, far from it, but removed from the battlefield or the execution yard, when it’s a hall at home...perhaps he has grown soft in Sebastian’s absence.

 

Lehnsherr seems largely content to ignore him.

 

Towards the end of the meal, when the torches have been changed twice over, Lehnsherr stands once again.

 

Addressing the hall, he begin a few words in Danish—a greeting, perhaps—before switching to Saxon. He wants the Saxons present to understand what comes next.

 

“Greetings, and my thanks to you all. Tonight we dine at the expense of our Saxon friends.” A rough cheer goes up, which he lets continue for a moment, before gesturing for silence. He seems more animated when giving this speech, less like the taciturn man Charles had met earlier in the day. Through this and his earlier ‘performance,’ Charles can see the makings of a statesman in Lehnsherr; though which side is the real man he can’t yet say.

 

Lehnsherr continues.

 

“While our kingdoms have long been at war, the Saxon co-operation in this instance suggests that our years of enmity may now at last be at an end.”—and that’s not really fair at all, when this war was completely instigated by Lehnsherr and his fellow countrymen—centuries of ruthless raiding with England merely defending herself against the Danish invaders.

 

“In fact, I hope to mark that change of relations between our people sooner, rather than later,—”

 

A strange feeling of anticipation rises in Charles’ gut. He has the sense that this, whatever it is, is the true event they have been waiting for.

 

“—to usher in a new era of closeness between our two states.”

 

Lehnsherr pauses briefly, to look toward him.

 

“It is to that end that I now announce the union of our peoples—through my engagement to Charles, Consort of England.”

 

Charles glances sharply at him as Lehnsherr takes his hand and holds their joined hands up for his followers. The cheering of the Danes, their thumping on the tables fades to a dull roar in his ears as he struggles to maintain his neutral façade and not to let the shock show though. In all his reasoning, all the lead up to now, he would never have expected…this.

 

But Lehnsherr is not finished his speech: “I hope in this, too, our Saxon allies will continue to be so accommodating.” His men roar with laughter at the unsubtle double entendre. “Through this union may we look forward to a fruitful future and many long years of peace, as Danish rule ushers in a new time of prosperity for Denmark and her sister, England.”

 

Charles’ head spins as he reorganizes his thoughts around this new information. All of the day’s events—Lehnsherr having Charles ride with him, getting him to identify Cain as the treaty-breaker—realign and suddenly take on a different meaning.

 

He hadn’t seen this coming. This is not the Danish pattern at all—they raid, sometimes conquer, and then move on, leaving a vassal lord where needed to collect taxes. Lehnsherr’s speech, this announcement, suggest permanence; that he means not only to conquer the Saxons, but to rule them, too.

 

As Lehnsherr sits back down amidst continued cheers, he pulls Charles forward by their still-linked hands, and leans in close.

 

“What was it you were saying earlier, your Highness?” He speaks in a low voice, too soft to be overheard. “That I should find some other way to entertain my men?”

 

Charles can practically feel the vibrations that carry his next words from Lehnsherr's chest to the air between them in almost a purr:

 

“Consider them entertained.”

 

Then he drops Charles’ hand and goes back to his meal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha, don't hate me!! (Though feel free to scream at me in the comments!)


	6. vi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Rises from beneath a pile of corpses at the bottom of the plague pit* I am not dead!! So sorry this update took so long!! I kept playing around with edits to try and keep this chapter more grounded in the moment and Charles and Erik’s bodies/surroundings, because I felt all the discussion was too head-y and thus felt very artificial, but it got to the point where I think I've been making it worse the other way so I'm sucking it up and posting! Thanks all for your patience!!

Sebastian had always appreciated unusual talents.

 

He had keenly admired Charles' preternatural ability to think under pressure, to distance himself from his body and examine a situation coldly and without emotion. Combined with a quick mind, and an aptitude for statecraft, its lure was enough for the King to unusually involve his consort in negotiations. Sebastian could be flexible with convention when breaking it served his best interests. Charles, on the other hand, knew when it was in _his_ best interests to comply.

 

Back in the great hall, the dinner carries on around him. On the edges of Charles’ awareness a rowdy song rings through the hall and inebriated Vikings toast their victory. The circlet he is wearing presses in on his temples, but he’s only vaguely aware of his pulse beating through it, rapt as he is in his inner citadel.

 

Sitting there on a plinth are the words of Boethius, a much perused passage: “ _He who has calmly reconciled his life to fate, and set proud death beneath his feet, can look fortune in the face, unbending both to good and bad; his countenance unconquered.”_ They rise up almost mockingly and he brushes them aside _._ He can’t afford to put his stock in fate just now; though neither can he fight its swift currents alone—swimming against them only ensures he’ll expend all his energy and drown. He sifts through his flowing thoughts, trying to find what he needs.

 

It’s clear from Lehnsherr’s announcement that he plans to make England his base and home, even if he intends to continue his conquering outwards. It’s an unprecedented move and try as he might Charles can’t begin to account for it. But, regardless of the cause, he must prepare, and adjust his plans accordingly.

 

Around him the torches burn low once more, and this time aren’t replaced. The drunken singing and reveling tapers off and the hall slowly begins to empty of its occupants. Further down the table someone vomits noisily.

 

“Come.”

 

Charles looks up to find Lehnsherr’s hand filling his field of vision, once again extended towards him. It seems that most of their interactions thus far have consisted of the other ordering him about. Ignoring the gesture, he stands on his own, figuring his rudeness can this once be excused.

 

As they leave the hall, Charles trailing Lehnsherr, he avoids eye contact with any of its denizens. He doesn’t want to know what kinds of lechery he will find in their gazes. Fortunately most of the remaining men are too drunk to take notice of them.

 

To his surprise, rather than heading back to the keep he finds himself being led down into the streets, in the direction of the city gates. Lehnsherr, then, is not setting up in the palace, at least not yet. He idly wonders whether this is a decision borne of habit or a sign of lingering mistrust: the keep, while secure, could well be breached from within the city.

 

At least he gets his own horse this time.

 

The moon is bright, and its light is enough to guide their way back to the camp.

 

They are alone, and for a split second Charles thinks of running. He could turn his horse around, break off in another direction. He’s a good rider, and it would take him only a few minutes to reach the woods: a terrain with which he is familiar and Lehnsherr and his men are not. But it’s just a fleeting thought. What keeps him here is not the Viking force with all their ruthlessness and two hundreds ships, but his loyalty to his people, his sense of duty, and the mission he has yet to accomplish.

 

He re-adjusts his grip on the reins and keeps his eyes fixed front.

 

He pays little attention to his surroundings as he rides. Horses have keen sight and see well in the dark; he trusts his mount to carry him safely. Instead, Charles turns over the thought that he is once again facing marriage to a stranger. Another husband. He’s survived it once, and he can do it again. He and his husband of fourteen years had never been particularly fond of each other, but all things considered Sebastian hadn't treated him badly. He was never overly cruel to Charles. The Black King had recognized in him an asset, and had taken care to shape his young spouse accordingly, treating him as well as any useful object.

 

They had had what might be called a workable relationship--and perhaps in time something like that could be crafted again.

 

But right now, he reasons, drawing himself away, that’s of little importance. Right now all that matters is how this new development can help him to complete his mission...namely that Lehnsherr has inadvertently given Charles a position of strength from which to bargain.

 

The bustle of the camp is gradually slowing when they arrive back. Charles dismounts and hands his reigns over to a figure in the waiting party—a boy, perhaps a page of some sort. He looks very young to be a part of a Viking war party, and Charles feels a pang of sympathy.  

 

As Lehnsherr leads the way back through the camp, they are flanked by several men. Some carry torches, others seem to be reporting back to Lehnsherr, exchanging tidbits of information in low tones. Several times he sees them look over to him, a half-step behind, with curious glances.

 

They weren’t at the banquet, of course. They wouldn’t yet know.

 

They weave through the tents and presently stop outside what Charles is surprised to recognize as the tent from this morning. It was so plain, so unlived-in that he would never have imagined it belonged to Lehnsherr—though maybe if he had he might have seen some of this coming.

 

Lehnsherr detaches the heavy train of his cloak, sweeping it off his shoulders and handing it over to an attendant. He’s giving instructions to someone else, but Charles doesn’t really pay attention. He doesn’t speak Danish, anyway.

 

At last Lehnsherr’s followers begin to disperse, exchanging a short phrase that could be ‘good night’. Lehnsherr lifts the tent flap and gestures for Charles to walk in ahead of him. 

 

After the evening’s events, Charles thinks as he goes, this at least is not unexpected. There are all sorts of reasons for Lehnsherr to want to bed him: to bind their engagement, to stake his claim in the eyes of his men—plus the fact that Lehnsherr has been fighting without omega company for quite some time. He imagines it’s been many nights since the man had someone to warm his bed. And Norsemen have a more relaxed approach to the sanctity of marriage vows; their engagement is more than sufficient grounds to justify such conduct.

 

“I’ve no intention of hurting you,” Lehnsherr says shortly and gruffly, perhaps misattributing Charles’ silence to fear. “We Danes respect our spouses.” He's already started stripping off his battle layers. Putting aside the thick, leather gambeson, unlacing his vambraces. Someone has left several candles burning, bathing the tent in a gentle glow.

 

It is this ridiculous assertion that finally draws Charles from his contemplative state.

 

 **“** Oh really?” he asks sharply, unable to contain his himself. “Do you respect them enough to ask their consent to marry them?”

 

Lehnsherr’s head snaps back towards him—perhaps surprised by this spark of energy after his relative docility since dinner.

 

He levels Charles with a measured gaze before responding. “There wasn't enough time to consult you, and there seemed little point, knowing you could hardly refuse.”  He leaves the final part unsaid; that their last interaction hadn’t left him in the mood to confer. He goes back to tending to his garments, folding them and piling them neatly, and finally, unbuckling his sword and laying it to the side.

 

“So which am I, then? Your prisoner or your spouse? As I assure you, I won’t be both.”

 

Lehnsherr huffs a laugh as he turns back to Charles, now wearing just a light tunic. “You’re quick, I’ll give you that.”

 

And then those hands are on him, grasping Charles and pulling him in closer to capture his mouth in a kiss—

 

Straight to it, then. Charles firmly pushes him back. “You’ve still not answered my question, _Your Grace.”_

 

Rather than reply, Lehnsherr crowds forward once more, the corners of his mouth curling up into a smirk, carrying this interaction with an infuriating air of humour. As though Charles is merely teasing him. As though he poses no threat.

 

Charles backs away as Lehnsherr advances. His foot seems to catch on the edge of the piled furs that make up the sleeping place, and he stumbles, falling back onto their cushioned surface. The circlet banding his brow is knocked askew. It falls off and slides toward the centre of the pile.

 

With a hungry look, Lehnsherr prowls over him.

 

And then he freezes.

 

“Not a sound to your men,” Charles quietly directs, his boot knife resting lightly across the back of the other man’s neck, his heart beating wildly.

 

“You would attempt to kill me in a camp surrounded by my own men?”

 

Lehnsherr’s voice is threaded with amusement, but he’s being carefully still, the bite of the knife discouraging him from taking any action.

 

“Perhaps I would. Perhaps my only goal is your death, the consequences be damned.”

 

The sharp edge of the blade has fixed them close together, and Lehnsherr’s breath puffs warm on his face as he responds.

 

“Then I would already be dead and we wouldn't be talking. No.” appraising eyes sweep over his face, intent. “You’re too clever for that.”

 

Charles pushes down his flush of pleasure at the rarity having his intelligence recognized as vastly inappropriate. Besides, the other didn’t intend it as a compliment, merely an observation—and he is perfectly right. Even if Charles managed to kill Lehnsherr, the guards outside could quickly gut him, and then would feel free to exact a bloody retribution on the city and all of its inhabitants, something that Charles has already shown his unwillingness to risk.  

 

He changes tack. “Very well, then; how about this? You want me as your consort to legitimize your claim to the throne of England.”

 

He says it as statement but it contains an element of question that’s resolved when Lehnsherr doesn't blink nor challenge his words. Feeling some satisfaction at his powers of assessment, he continues.

 

“I will play along, provide you with an English heir, even, but first you must give me what I want.”

 

“And what might that be?” Lehnsherr asks.

 

“My children. You must promise to spare their lives.” Rather than the proximity of their bodies, where they press together in a parody of intimacy, he focuses on the other’s eyes, trying to discern Lehnsherr’s thoughts from his gaze.

 

“What makes you think they're in danger?”

 

“They’re the last legitimate heirs to the throne, thus their claims far exceed your own. Let’s not prevaricate. I understand your situation: in order to stabilize your own position, you’ll seek eliminate any threats, and I’m not naïve enough to assume our union would protect them.”

 

The other’s face takes on a thoughtful expression, calculating, graver than his earlier amusement.

 

“Say that I did intend to harm your children. What do you imagine might induce me to spare them? As the greatest threats to my rule, surely it’s in my best interests that they're removed.”

 

Charles senses that this is more an intellectual exercise than a direct threat—at least for the moment—but just hearing the words inflames him. The knife digs in, drawing a hiss from Lehnsherr.

 

“They’re _children_. They have no plots or schemes, no interest in ruling anything. I’ve already sent them to Normandy, as no doubt your spies have informed you. There they will stay, you have my word, far from here and no threat to you, as long as you give me yours that you will not send assassins after them.”

 

“So I let Shaw’s vipers wriggle free? To sting another day.”

 

The surface of the words remains the same, but there’s a new intensity underlying them, barely perceptible in his placid expression, that betrays a depth of feeling long hidden. It's this that stills the rebuke on Charles’ tongue, and contours the next words that come out of his mouth.

 

“I raised no vipers. I would never encourage ambition in my children when so far down the line of succession, it would only get them killed. Besides, Sebastian saw little reason to shape them to his will, the spare children of his political second marriage. As long as I remained useful to him, he was content to leave them alone.” He offers a humorless smile. “Of course he could never have imagined that in just a few months of battle you would slaughter all of their siblings.” Or that Charles would be here, lying in bed with their killer.

 

Outside there’s a rustle and the sound of drunken laughter as one of Lehnsherr’s warriors stumbles off to bed. Charles tenses, but Lehnsherr makes no move to call out. They wait for the man and his companion to pass before Charles continues, more softly, now.

 

“Even if they had inherited the predation of their sire, they care for me deeply. They would never attack if they thought it might endanger my life or my safety. Surely that possibility occurred to when you conceived of this marriage. Does your ruthlessness extend to inhumanity, that you’d so needlessly wet your hands with the blood of innocents? Besides, I would hate to think that a warrior of your supposed might is afraid of a couple of children.”

 

This last dig, a transparent attempt to goad him, brings a glimmer of humour back into Lehnsherr’s eye.

 

“Tell me, your Highness: even if I were willing to concede to your wishes, what reason do I have to do so? You have no leverage when my death would bring you nothing.”  He leans back just a bit more as though to emphasize his point, pushing his throat a little further into the blade.

 

“That’s where you’re wrong.”

 

Lehnsherr’s eyebrows rise. “Well, then, please, enlighten me.”

 

His flippancy reveals his distraction, of which Charles immediately takes advantage. He puts sudden pressure on Lehnsherr’s throat and rolls them, turning until their positions are reversed and he straddles Lehnsherr. He lets the other’s faint look of surprise fuel his next words.

 

“No doubt you imagined that I would quietly acquiesce to your plans, for fear of you, or for the privilege of remaining royal consort; or perhaps because I’m simply too meek and too pliable to do otherwise. But I would do anything for my children. Even die.”

 

Perfectly calm now, he pulls the knife back from Lehnsherr’s throat and moves it to his own, pressing down against the skin. The other’s eyes widen slightly, revealing, for the first time, a hint of uncertainty.

 

Lehnsherr tries to sit up, levering himself up on his elbows. Charles holds out his free hand in a stalling gesture and presses down on the knife. A bead of blood wells up from its keen point, the sting of it sharpening his thoughts.

 

“Stop.”

 

There’s no force behind the word, and yet Lehnsherr lowers himself back down. One corner of Charles’ mouth twists up in a grim smile.

 

“As you've so astutely pointed out, I’m not a fool— and you’ve revealed a vulnerability in your plan. You _need_ me to legitimize your claim on England. But it would be only too easy to turn this knife on myself. And how would that look?—Erik the Conqueror ruthlessly murders the defenceless omega consort of his dead rival—or, better still, his own consort (thank you for that). With the span of your kingdom, I know you can’t allow that nor afford the resulting upset; even a with force like yours, your men can’t be everywhere. Not to mention that my family in Normandy would hear of my death and feel obligated to seek vengeance against the perpetrator.”

 

Lehnsherr is watching him avidly, now, his eyes bright with something unnameable.

 

“So the way I see it you have two options: spare the lives of my children and gain a compliant, strategically advantageous spouse; or refuse my bargain and live with the consequences.”

 

The warlord seems to consider his words.

 

“Done.”

 

“Done?”

 

For all that he has been angling for this outcome, it feels unreal to hear it spoken aloud.  

 

“I agree to your terms, Charles of Normandy.”

 

The wave of emotion that flows through him is strong—but Charles has the presence of mind to stutter— “ _Swear_ it.” —before he lets it carry him away.

 

“I swear to you on my sister’s grave that in exchange for your cooperation your children will come to no harm from me—nor anyone in my service.”

 

Charies’ eyes flicker over his face, searching for signs of veracity, sincerity; and Lehnsherr returns the gaze in an in entirely different mood, expression rapt, a bright, almost eager look in his eyes.

 

In the relief that floods Charles when he finds no signs of deception, he relaxes his arm marginally—and Lehnsherr presses this advantage.

 

He grabs Charles’ wrist, pries the knife from his grasp and tosses it to one side. In one fluid motion he flips them back over, pressing Charles into the furs, and leans forward to take his mouth in a kiss.

 

Lehnsherr kisses him roughly, like a man used to taking what he wants, demanding, rapacious, overmastering; but there's another layer underneath, a tenderness that undoes him. It sends hot streaks of want slithering up Charles’ spine. He grabs at Lehnsherr’s shoulders, shocked, torn between pulling him closer and pushing him away.

 

The tension wracks his body, caught between one moment, one impulse and the next until he at last gives in. For a fraction of a moment, Charles lets himself reciprocate, yielding to his surprising desire. He returns the kiss, pushing back against Lehnsherr and matching the man’s fervour with his own.

 

And then, with surprise as his ally, he pushes _up_ one of his knees and _shoves_ Lehnsherr off of him with all of his strength.

 

While Lehnsherr is momentarily stunned, fallen off the edge of the furs and collapsed onto his side, Charles snatches up his knife from the ground, grabs a thick blanket from the pile, and removes himself to the farthest corner of the tent.

 

“We’ll wait until we’re married,” he says. The words convey a firmness that doesn’t quite reach his voice, as he tries to ignore his racing pulse, disguise how he’s affected.

 

When no response is forthcoming, he looks back over to Lehnsherr and finds him still stunned on the ground, looking vaguely winded. And then he can’t help it—laughter bubbles up out of him, wild and sharp and moderately hysterical. Perhaps his thrusting knee had brushed some sensitive areas.

 

“Glad we could come to an agreement,” he manages at last.

 

He keeps a cautious grip on the knife, half-expecting the other man to come after him like a brute; but when Lehnsherr finally moves it is just to blow out the candles, plunging the tent into darkness.

 

When Charles works up the courage to look back over, he sees that the other has turned away to face the tent wall, seemingly committed to sleep.

 

He rolls onto his back to stare at the canvas canopy above him, low down in his corner of the tent. Outside the noise of the camp has faded, retreating to a low murmur in the background, -- but Charles doesn’t really register it.

 

His mind, still caught in disbelief, gradually begins to settle. His spinning thoughts begin to wind down. Exhaustion calls. For the first time since he sent them away, he pictures his children. Sitting by a crackling fire, playing under Raven’s watchful eye, warm, vibrant, and full of life.

 

He breathes out, and tastes a hint of salt.

 

He pulls the fur close around him, inadequate cover though it is. And then, in a tent in the middle of the Viking camp, surrounded by his enemies on all sides, he falls into a deep and dreamless sleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic started with just two images: Charles waiting on a beach, and threatening Erik with a knife in bed. I was inspired by the story of the 11th century King Cnut and Emma of Normandy. After the death of her husband King Aethelred, Emma (his second wife) held a besieged London for months alone against the Danes. Less than a year after the city was surrendered to Cnut, they were married. There has been much speculation around the fact that, despite the custom of the time, and Cnut’s swift execution of other potential claimants to the throne, Emma’s two children from her first marriage were not killed but survived in exile.
> 
> Now that I've finally got the last chapter out, I'm going to look into developing a sequel. I have some ideas of what to cover--for one, this fic didn’t really have time for Erik’s backstory/motivations--but let me know if there’s something that you’d like to see!
> 
> Thanks all for following! Thank you for your amazing support and encouragement!! I so so so appreciate your bookmarks, kudos and comments!!! If you want to get in touch, you can also find me on Tumblr as brawlingdiscontent, where I also occasionally post snippets of things I'm working on.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Evolution (terrible with the brightness of gold Remix)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19841983) by [Akasanata](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Akasanata/pseuds/Akasanata)




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